Red Shoes & Tin Houses
by heiots
Summary: Collection of short fics where Tony Stark and Natasha Romanov are little orphans with special gifts.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Full collection of Little!Tony & Little!Natasha on AO3.**

Perspiration runs in little rivulets down five-year-old Tony Stark's back, staining his shirt a darker shade of blue. He narrows his eyes, unwilling to submit to the merciless sun beating down upon the earth, but the heat persists, and finally, he retreats under the canopy of a clump of trees. He lowers himself to the ground, settling into the cooler dirt of the shady area. Swiping at the wetness running down the side of his face, he turns his gaze back to the lone individual seated on one of the two swings on the sheltered playground.

She's small-built, like him - maybe just half an inch taller - and sports a head of red hair. He doesn't quite remember when she made her first appearance. Two weeks ago, or maybe three. He's been in this place a lot longer than she has in what he gathers is similar to a boarding school with custom-made programs for special kids.

A kind of school that he has never left to go home for vacations.

All he knows is that she's always alone, and no one ever comes to visit _them_.

He pushes himself up, brushing his hands against the backseat of his shorts in a futile effort to rid the fabric of any soil stains left there. He'd probably get into trouble later, but it isn't a top priority, and the thought is forgotten in the next second. He strides forward and squints into the brightness, the tips of his mostly white tennis shoes meeting the edge of sunlight.

She makes a forlorn figure, her hands curled into fists around the chains of the swing as she digs a foot into the sand, giving herself a half-hearted push.

He chews on the inside of his bottom lip. In a surprising show of bravery, or perhaps utter stupidity, he puffs out his chest and marches over to the playground before coming to a stop at the swing set. There, his muscles twitch. The sudden courage abandons him. Losing his nerve, he makes an abrupt turn and drops onto the other swing. He clutches the slightly rusted chains and pushes off the ground, pretending not to notice the presence of another. He gains momentum, pushing back harder with his feet.

The wind, warm as it may be, is a welcome sensation. He isn't progressing as fast as he'd like, however, and it isn't long until his legs are tiring.

 _Why aren't there swings that go high on their own?_

He decides that when he has grown up, he would create some. Wouldn't that be a blast.

"Hi."

The voice startles him, interrupting his temporary quest to get as high as possible. Had he imagined the hesitant greeting? He sinks both feet into the sand, and tilting his head, peers questioningly at her.

She offers a tentative smile. "Are you here for that?"

His hand follows the direction of her gaze, landing on the warm, metallic circle emitting light at the center of his chest. He gives a nod. "And you?"

The words are out before he has a chance to hold them back.

Her eyes flicker.

They're the colour of emeralds. He knows because he's got a book on gemstones somewhere.

"I'm Tony." He tries again, sticking out his hand. "Really Anthony Edward Stark, but you can call me Tony."

A beat passes. The corners of her lips edge up just the slightest, and she shyly clasps his hand with hers. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova," she says, voice tinged with an accent he can't place. "They call me Natasha."

The bell rings. He hops off the swing, and she mimics him. For a second, they look at each other in an unspoken understanding.

"Race you to the door!" He cries all of a sudden. "Last one there is a computerized clod!"

He dashes off gleefully, hearing her running footsteps not far behind. The bell, signaling the end of break time, ceases, and though it threatens with the possibility of punishment for tardiness, he cannot help the grin that spreads across his face.

He finally made a friend.

* * *

Natasha takes ballet, martial arts, and whatnot, while Tony does what she calls computer wizardry. They see each other during mealtimes and break periods, usually meeting by the fountain with weathered marble statues of cherubs near the dormitories.

It is a huge school, he tells her. Home to him, because he knows no other. Sometimes he dreams of the booming laughter of a father and the loving kisses of a mother. He cannot tell if they are the lingering remains of a long forgotten memory or the result of a silent yearning coupled with an over-active imagination.

There are grown-ups that drop by once in a while to interact with other children from the school. He witnesses the fond touches, the affectionate looks, and concludes that they must belong together.

He belongs to no one.

During lunch, he asks Natasha about the whole idea of parents and whether or not she wants to be adopted.

She stiffens, and her soup spoon clatters back into the bowl.

It has been one week since they'd become friends. He knows when she does not wish to answer a question.

"Switch my carrots with your cup of milk," he offers, changing the subject.

Perturbation turns to surprise. "Can we?"

"Why not? I do that all the time," he lies.

Doubt flits across her face. He doesn't wait for an answer. Grabbing the school-approved cup still three-quarters filled with milk, he guzzles it down as quickly as he dares without spilling a drop on his shirt. Finished, he sets it back down on her tray with a self-satisfied sigh before letting out a soft burp of contentment.

She stares at him with a mixture of awe, horror, and what he chooses to believe is a touch of admiration.

"What?" He shrugs and nudges his tray closer to hers. "Your turn. Gotta keep your end of the deal, you know."

"I never said yes in the first place," she counters, arching a brow. Her eyes dart towards the front, where a teacher is customarily stationed to oversee the dining period. Seeing that attention is focused elsewhere, she picks up her fork and stabs a piece of cold carrot. "You don't know who's watching," she mumbles through a mouthful of vegetables.

"If they catch you, they'll probably just scold you or something," he says almost derisively.

She doesn't reply, even after they've carried their empty trays to the front for inspection.

"You're little," she tells him when they are out in the hall. "You don't know anything."

He straightens to his full height, indignation blooming in his chest. "I'm almost six," he retorts. "And you're only a few months older than me."

* * *

On a snowy Thursday evening, he sticks exactly six toothpicks into the blueberry muffin he'd snuck under his jacket from the breakfast spread in the cafeteria. It is a little crumbly at the sides, and there is a good-sized hole from an unfortunate accident, but he thinks she wouldn't mind.

The companion to the birthday cake is a dark red cloth bag a little smaller than a textbook, pulled shut with drawstrings. He decides not to tell her he'd gotten the gift through what the other students call the "Black Market".

With both items having been carefully placed on a low table, there is nothing more to do but wait.

Her accommodations are not unlike his; only he has more gadgets lying around from the projects he creates in classes. The basics, however, remain the same: a twin bed with a black-brown wooden frame, a closet, a small side table coupled with a chair, and a dresser, all sporting a similar design. Three colour options for bed sheets and comforters are offered to them.

Some kids have more. He's heard the boastings and seen the evidence, kids pampered by parents he now knows as Sponsors. It's a term fast travelling around the school from one child to another.

He would like one, but Natasha isn't as enthusiastic. She once told him there is beauty in simplicity, and only destruction in wanting more.

Mind wandering, he meanders to the window where snow is falling so fast it looks like a sheet of white. His breath condenses on the cold glass, and he idly writes out the formula for a mathematical problem with a finger.

Maybe she'd be up for building a snowman in the morning, he considers, distracted.

There is the click of the lock, and he spins around, the elated cries of "Happy Birthday" spilling from his lips even before catching sight of her.

She stands in the doorway, head cocked at an angle. "You remember," she begins slowly. "The last time they caught you sneaking back to your room after curfew?"

"But it's November 22nd!" His voice pipes up an octave in his excitement. "It's a special occasion!"

She shuts the door and takes in the new additions to her room, a crease forming between her brows. "How did you know?"

"Sources." He grins secretively.

It takes her a minute before she lowers herself on the carpet before the little wooden table. "Are these supposed to be candles?" She asks with quiet amusement, eyeing the toothpicks impaling the muffin.

"I can light them on fire if you want me to," he offers, eager to show off some of the skills he's recently attained.

She rejects him, but he sees the twinkle in her eyes and hears her chuckle. Suddenly giddy, he abandons the plan to wait until after the cake. Snatching his gift from the table, he shoves it in her hands, nodding vigorously when she gives him a questioning glance.

He quivers with excitement as she carefully pulls open the top of the bag. At the sound of a sharp intake of breath, he breaks the silence. "Do you like it?" He blurts out, breathless from the anticipation.

She doesn't speak, but hugs the red ballet shoes to her chest and gives him the kind of smile that people do when they're trying not to cry.

After they've both demolished the cake, when crumbs and toothpicks litter the table, when the only light is the warm, orange glow of the lamps, and the only sound is the howling wind of the winter storm, he sits with her on the ground, knees pulled up to his chest. Their backs rest against the bed frame as they face the window, witnessing Mother Nature's fury.

"If today was your last birthday," she begins in a voice so soft, her words are almost inaudible. "What would you do?"

He chews on his lip, mind spinning. Books and the World Wide Web may have provided him with a significant amount of knowledge about birthday traditions, but he has never celebrated his birthday with another.

Imagination would have to suffice. What _would_ he do?

After a long moment of pondering, he chooses the answer that feels most right to him.

"I would do whatever I wanted to do, with whomever I wanted to do it with."


	2. Chapter 2

A paper ball hits Tony Stark on the side of his face during a lecture on "Programming Methodology" the year he turns seven. He twists around in his seat, glaring balefully at the possible culprits in the back row.

One of the three attendees, feet propped up on the table, meets his annoyed gaze and has the gall to snicker at him. Swinging his feet to the ground, the boy hunches over the desk and motions for him to read the crumpled piece of paper.

He frowns, turning back to face the front, determined to ignore the spikey-haired kid with pale, piercing eyes, but two additional hits on the exact spot on his skin makes him consider reporting the new student for disruptive behaviour.

"Clinton Francis Barton," the overhead speakers announce smoothly. "Please report to the Principal's office. Clinton Francis Barton, please report to the Principal's office."

He has never put much stock in luck until now.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the infuriating boy rise and saunter out of the lecture hall. He returns his attention to the professor, expecting no further interruptions.

Temptation wins out within thirty seconds.

The first note reads: "You and Natasha Romanoff are best buddies?"

The second is a variation of the first: "Are you friends with Nat Romanoff?"

The last is a gratingly childish drawing of what appears to be six stick figures battling a monster with bulging eyes, triangles for ears, and vampire fangs dripping blood.

He shakes his head and throws it all in the trash bin at the end of class.

* * *

There's something he likes about the old playground on the eastern side of campus. It's tiny compared to the newer installments of the academy, but that doesn't bother him. He doesn't tire of the sand pit, the swing set for two, the variety of slides, and he particularly enjoys the elevator contraption that allows you to ride up if you accomplish solving the random puzzles it generates.

The other reason that makes it his ultimate hang out place is seated at the top of the spiral slide, humming the melody from Ravel's _Bolero_.

"Natasha?"

The music ceases. She looks down from her perch at his semi-constructed city of sand. "Anthony."

"Do you know Clint Barton?"

"Yes." She slides to the bottom, flashing him a bright smile on her way down.

"I saw him in one of my classes the other day."

"Programming Methodology?"

He pauses mid-motion, wrinkling his brow. "You know?"

"He's here on an exchange program." She executes an impromptu pirouette before dancing towards the rope structure at the other end of the playground, disappearing out of sight.

"And?" He calls out, impatient.

"He went to the wrong classroom the first day he was here," she continues, voice muffled. "That's why they called him out. We've—"

The words come to an abrupt end. He waits, poking his index finger petulantly at one of the two towers.

"We've got two classes together," she finishes as she emerges back at the top, face flushed. "That's how I got to know about it."

There is a feeling of discomfort in his belly, the kind he gets when he's eaten something bad. "You talked to him?" he asks, assuming an air of nonchalance to cover his unease.

She makes a sound at the back of her throat as she bends at the waist, stretching. "He draws weird pictures and sings strange rock songs from the eighties." She pauses. "Beat me at track yesterday too."

"Oh," he says in a flat tone.

In the year and a half of knowing Natasha, he's never seen her respond to those who dare try to make her acquaintance except for him, much less hold a conversation with them. They sit together during mealtimes, finding solace in each other, two outcasts in a sea of students believing no one needs them and they need no one else.

The kids say she's haughty, and the teachers think her shy.

He knows better; she's scared.

Now there's a new kid in town, and as he looks up at her thoughtful expression, his heart sinks.

She likes Barton.

He grimly resumes building, lost in his brooding thoughts. When someone hunkers down beside him in the sand pit, assisting him with the formation of his utopia castle, he blinks in surprise. Green eyes meet his brown ones.

"I like Clint just fine," she says bluntly. "But I like _you_ best."

 **A/N: Red Shoes & Tin Houses II is up.**


End file.
